


After the Battle, Healing Begins

by islandsmoke



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 15:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10539216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandsmoke/pseuds/islandsmoke
Summary: After the horrors of the final battle, it's not easy for either Severus or Hermione to return to a normal life.  Perhaps they can help each other?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written ages ago, before OotP sometime. Thoroughly canon shafted now, of course.
> 
> It was beta'd at the time by Moaning Myrtle.

~~ **After the Battle, Healing Begins** ~~

The battle came at the end of Harry Potter’s last year at Hogwarts. Voldemort was defeated, most of his sympathizers were in prison and the survivors were trying to piece their lives back together as best they could. Some who had survived physically were forever in St Mungo’s, the horrors of the day too much for them to assimilate. Some carried on almost as though nothing had happened, though they would wake screaming in the night and cling to their loved ones, crying like lost children.

Like many others, Severus Snape had run, not intending to return. On a small island of rock and tree off the coast of Maine, he spent his days walking and sitting in the sun, reading or staring for endless hours at the sea, trying to absorb some of its tranquillity. There was a small community on the island: a few trucks, no paved roads, a couple of inns and a few guest houses. In winter, it was the fishermen who stayed. In summer, a large number of artists moved in, getting along remarkably well with the locals. Two boats a day brought mail, supplies and day-trippers -- folks who walked the miles of trails, visited the shops and galleries, strolled through the museum in the lighthouse keeper’s cottage on the hill and wondered what the locals did for entertainment. A large part of what the locals did was to watch the day-trippers. Lobstering in the waters surrounding the island was limited to the winter months, so during the summer the men and women who made their living from the sea mended traps, painted buoys, rebuilt boat engines, hung out at the fish house and watched the tourists. Some of them made extra money taking people out for rides in their work boats; circling the island so people could see the huge cliffs on the eastern side or maybe, for the birdwatchers, cruising around Egg Rock with its colony of puffins. 

Snape was staying at the Billowing Bedsheet, a guest house that, along with renting rooms in the main part of the house, had a small addition with two tiny apartments. The small apartment had a smaller kitchen but the yard was spacious with a lovely garden and chairs under a huge shade tree. It was at the back of the house and away from the dirt road that wound up the hill to the lighthouse. The other apartment was occupied by an artist from Pennsylvania who spent a month each summer on the island. He was out most days working and when he was in, he made as little noise as Snape. Once a week, Snape and the artist would give a list of things they required from the mainland to the landlady and she would call the items over to the grocery store by the dock. The store would load the things into boxes and send them out on the next ferry where they would be collected at the dock by the landlady’s son and trundled home in a cart. 

His wand was still packed in his bags. He was a perfectly competent cook, for what little he ate, and for the time being, he was content to live among the Muggles and forget for awhile that magic even existed. One day he had come across his artist neighbour working up the hill by the lighthouse and had stopped to admire the man’s work. He painted in watercolours and with exquisite detail. They had spoken only briefly but the next evening at the guesthouse, he and the man had struck up a conversation in the garden. They talked of art and artists and Bradley had shown him some of his works in progress. The next day, Snape had taken the unusual step of entering one of the island galleries to look at some of the artist’s other work. After that, they would occasionally share a glass of wine and a bit of conversation in the evening in the garden. Mostly though, Snape stuck to his own company. His mind was crowded with thoughts and images too painful to be looked at and too huge to hide. 

He had been on the island three weeks but little of the peace seemed to be reaching his soul. It was early morning and he had hiked up to the top of the cliffs to sit in the light of the rising sun. Below him, gulls cried out and rode the spiralling updrafts of the warming air. The sound of the waves breaking on the rocks bellow was just audible over the calls of the sea birds. He had seen a family of deer on his morning hike -- a doe and two fawns that were frequently by the trail at the early hour. The young ones had stared at him with their huge eyes, curious but unafraid. Like children. 

Snape lowered his head to the arms that were folded over his knees. So many children had died. So many. Fighting a battle that should have been fought by adults, they had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their elders and fallen like leaves. He had failed them. All his years of spying, years of pretending, lying and conniving and still dozens had died. Yes, he had been able to warn of the attack; because of him, they knew when and where it was coming. Yes, he had saved many lives – he’d even been vaunted as a hero but still he saw the eyes of the ones he had failed. And the deaths were not his only failures. Almost worse were the ones in Azkaban. Children locked in that hellhole because he had not been able to keep them from turning; had not been able to protect them from the propaganda, from the evil. All those children. His children. His to care for and protect and he had failed them.

The sounds of the gulls faded and the sounds of the battle rose in his mind as once again the endless loop played behind his eyes. 

Smoke. The eyes burned with it and the throat already raw from shouting curses was scorched by it. 

Blood. The ground outside the school was slippery with it. It covered everyone, the dying and the whole alike, though by the end of the day, there were few who were not torn. 

Noise. My God, the noise! The screams of the dying, of the wounded, of the living... The shouts of the leaders trying to make themselves heard above the din. The curses being flung at full voice. The explosions. The roar of the trolls, of the giants, of the dragons that Charlie Weasley had mercifully been able to get there in time. It was the dragons that had turned the tide of battle. 

Individual scenes and images flashed through his mind. 

Hagrid. He shuddered. The gentle friend who had always been waiting to find him on his return from the Dark Lord’s summonses. The one who had carried him to the hospital wing, still twitching and screaming from the Cruciatus Curse. The one who had held him gently as he puked his guts out from the pain and fed him herb tea to settle his seething insides when he hadn’t wanted anyone else to know how bad it was. Snape had fought side by side with Potter, Ron Weasley and Longbottom, trying to cover Hagrid as he tried to help his injured half-brother, Grawp. They had failed. The giants on the Dark Lord’s side had overwhelmed them. He and the boys had escaped, but Hagrid and Grawp had fallen. Hagrid, who had never understand cruelty and always believed the best in everyone.

Longbottom. A grim smile twisted his mouth. Longbottom had fought like one possessed. Fast, accurate, merciless, the boy had avenged his parents a hundred times over. Snape prayed his collapse wasn’t permanent, that he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life in a room beside his parents’ at St Mungo’s.

Tonks. He had only seen her a couple of times. Fighting like some warrior princess of the past, she validated the belief in her that had led him to recommend her for Auror training years ago. Once, when he was knocked flat on his face by a troll, she had stepped in, dispatched the troll with one well-placed hex and grabbing him by the collar – and not a little hair – had hauled him to his knees then steadied him as he scrambled to his feet.

“Get to work, will ya!” She’d thrown at him over the din of the battle. “Nap later!”

The Weasleys. Bane of his teaching existence. Charlie, safe on the back of one of his dragons. Bill, cut down by a Death Eater. Tiny Ginny, quick as a shadow, deadly with her hexes; when her wand broke, she fell back and helped the injured. Arthur, leading a contingent from the Order, badly damaged but healing. Percy, a no-show. Fred and George showing up with a whole load of explosives and grenades! Molly. NEVER get in the way a Gryffindor woman defending her children. She had fought as fiercely as four Death Eaters. And Ron. Stuck like glue to Potter’s back almost to the end. They had been separated, he and Potter, just before Dumbledore fell. Snape had been fighting a half dozen Death Eaters who were backing him toward the lake, trying to circle him, cut him off. He felt a nudge at his side and someone yelled in his ear. “I’ve got your back. Let’s get these bastards!” It had been Ron. Together they had driven the Death Eaters back and taken them out of the fight. Then Ron had disappeared into the smoke.

Shortly afterward, Dumbledore had fallen. Going down under the wand of the Dark Lord, using himself as a distraction so Potter could get close enough to do what the entire Wizarding world expected of him. Potter had not let them down. Snape remembered his face: a frozen mask of terror as he pushed ever forward, ever closer to the Dark Lord. Never once did he falter. Courage, Snape had always held, was not lack of fear; it was being afraid and getting the job done anyway. He willingly admitted that Potter deserved his hero’s status.

Filius Flitwick. Throwing more sparks than a Roman candle, he had done serious damage before going down.

Professor Sprout -- dead. 

Madam Hooch -- injured. 

Professor McGonagall. Snape’s look was too grim to be called a smile. Another Gryffindor woman defending her chicks, she was an awesome force. Most importantly, she would mend.

Moody. Wielding the Unforgivables like a Death Eater, he seemed impervious to attack.

And the children. 

The Ravenclaws had not faired well. Cerebral, used to considering their options before acting, many of them had been too slow to save themselves. 

The Slytherins hadn’t done that well either. Used to getting what they wanted by treachery, stealth or bullying, many had crumpled in the face of hand-to-hand combat.

The Gryffindors had sustained heavy losses because they were always in the thick of things, but they had done more than their share. Every one a fighter. 

The Hufflepuffs. Here Snape did smile a bit. The Hufflepuffs had done just what he and Dumbledore had known they would do and exactly what the Dark Lord didn’t expect. To his great loss, Voldemort had underestimated the Hufflepuffs. Dogged and determined, they had driven Snape nearly mad in class, but those characteristics were theirs in everything they did. The badger was one of the most ferocious fighters in the animal kingdom when it was cornered or defending its home. The Hufflepuffs had made their mascot proud that day.

Snape shook his head. He was evaluating children as warriors. Every child’s death had pained him, whichever side they had fought on. Many were 17 or 18 and some would argue that they were no longer children but as long as they were in school, they were his to care for. Fine job he had done. 

He sighed. How must Dumbledore have felt? Even after school, he considered his students to be his children. That meant about 80% of the combatants were individuals to him. People. Children. His children.

Snape let out a small moan of pain.

When it was over, when the Dark Lord had fallen and the remaining Death Eaters had fled with the Ministry hot on their heels, most of the noise had faded. There was still the sound of the fires, the calls of the mediwitches and first-aid crews and the screams and moans of the few injured and dying that hadn’t been tended yet, but compared to the sounds of battle, it was eerily quiet. Snape had heard a garbled, hoarse voice ranting and cussing and had looked around him through the haze of smoke. Twenty feet away, Hermione Granger was kicking the bejeezus out of a very dead Draco Malfoy, swearing like a storm trooper and screeching like a banshee. This was the first he had seen of her in the battle. She was covered with blood, her clothes torn, her hair on end and she was clearly in the grip of some demon. He reached her in a few long strides and grabbing her arm, had pulled her away from Draco. 

“Stop it, Miss Granger. He’s dead.” Hermione had turned her fury on him kicking, hitting and biting his hands where they held her wrists. Mercifully, she seemed to have forgotten about the wand that was still clenched in her fist. She screamed at him, unintelligible sounds and curses mixed together. 

“Miss Granger, stop! It’s over now.” He gave her a shake and it was as if he had broken every bone in her body. With an animal cry of agony she buckled and it was only the fact that he already had a grip on her that kept her from falling. He folded her in his arms and rocked her as her broken sobs wracked her body.

“M..Mione?” It was the voice of a child and Snape’s head snapped around in anger that a child had been allowed on the battlefield. It was a child, but a 17 year old, six foot, red-haired child. Ron was covered with dirt and blood that stood out starkly on his white face. His eyes were huge and had the look of a wounded animal; a creature that had been beaten but didn’t understand why. Reflexively, Snape held out an arm to the boy and without a whimper, Ron stepped into the circle of its comfort. Snape almost staggered under their combined weight as Ron leaned on him, dropped his head to Snape’s shoulder and cried. 

Potter! Snape panicked for an instant, his eyes searching the battlefield. A dozen yards away, a small group very like his own stood with their arms around each other. Potter, Tonks and Lupin. Lupin lifted his head and his eyes met Snape’s. He gave a brief nod, then turned his attention back to the two he was holding. 

Hermione was venting her grief in a very noisy and active manner. Snape held her shoulders and wondered at her seeming frailty. A child, strong as a warrior, fragile as a bird. Well, perhaps not so fragile. She was clutching him around the ribs with a grip that threatened to restrict his respiration. Ron was silent in his distress but it was no less real. Snape cradled the boy’s face against his shoulder and felt huge sobs shake the young man’s frame. They were his children no less than the Slytherins. Lowering his head, he rested his chin on the top of Hermione’s head, his cheek against the back of Ron’s head and let his own tears flow.

Snape recovered first of the three and when Ron suddenly straightened up and stepped back, the expression he saw on Snape’s face was the one he was used to from class. 

“Ah... um... I was worried about ‘Mione.” He smeared dirt, blood and tears on his cheeks with the heels of his hands.

Hermione was still crying, though more quietly. She hadn’t loosened her grip in the slightest. He wrapped his now free left arm around her as well.

“I’ll take care of her, Mr. Weasley. Why don’t you check on Mr. Potter.” Snape’s voice was gentle.

Ron looked scandalized for a moment, then studied Hermione. Her face was buried in Snape’s chest and her hands were gripping fistfuls of the shirt on his back. Her sobbing had quieted to a continuous weeping.

“Um, sure, ah... thanks for taking care of her.”

Snape gave him a ghost of a smile and Ron hurried off. A lot of men, and most boys, didn’t seem to have the slightest idea what to do with a crying female but years of being Head of House had taught Snape a few things, as had hanging around Hagrid. When a creature needed comforting, you gave it comfort.

Slowly, organization had come to chaos. The injured were tended, the worst sent off to temporary hospital wards in the school or to St. Mungo’s. The dead were removed and held for relatives to collect. The dead animals and magical creatures were piled and burned. The black smoke and the stench were everywhere. Charlie left with his group of dragon riders, eager to get the giant beasts back to safety before they were spotted and caused a panic. The giants drifted off and the trolls melted away. By the time night had fallen, the battlefield was almost empty, though the black smoke still filled the air. 

So much death in so short a time.

It had taken Hermione a long while to stop crying. He could tell when her mind returned to the present by the sudden stiffening of her body. She had become aware of him holding her, of herself clinging to him, but she didn’t know who it was who comforted her. She slowly loosened her grip and pressed her forehead to his chest, gathering herself a bit before she looked up. He steeled himself for the look of revulsion he was certain would cross her face. While Hermione had never hated him the way the rest of the trio had, he was pretty sure he was not her first choice for saviour. Her brown eyes, red from crying, looked into his and blinked. 

“Professor Snape?” There was a bit of wonder but no fear or loathing.

“Are you feeling better, Miss Granger?” He reached in his back pocket, pulled out a large handkerchief, miraculously clean amid the wreck of battle, and handed it to her.

She blew her nose loudly then folded the handkerchief and smeared the filth on her face with her tears. 

“I... I think so.” She held out the handkerchief but he shook his head and she twisted it between her hands. 

“Are you injured, Miss Granger?” His schoolroom tone seemed to be steadying her.

“No, sir. At least, I don’t think so.” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Where can I be of help?”

“I believe Madam Pomfrey could probably use your assistance tending the wounded.” He did not smile, but let his voice soften a bit.

She had nodded and turning, set off for the school. Back straight, shoulders square, a child warrior off to due her duty.

Almost half of the sixth and seventh year students had died or been imprisoned. Forty three of the underclassmen were gone. Five of the staff had fallen. Some of the Death Eaters had escaped, but the Aurors were hunting them.

~~

So many lives. Snape drew a ragged breath. The warm sun shone down on him, but he shivered. A gentle breeze lifted his long hair, but he didn’t feel it.

A shadow fell across him and someone sat close beside him. He went rigid with fury. One of the nice things about the island was that even though there might be quite a few people some days, they were all there for the peace and the beauty and except for a smile or wave in passing, they left each other alone. That someone should invade his space like this was inexcusable. It took very little effort for him to put on his nastiest expression as he lifted his face and snarled in cold anger, “Go away!”

A pair of big brown eyes met his and they blinked at each other.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

Hermione drew back a little but didn’t bolt and run. No mean feat, considering the look of the man sitting a foot from her.

“Professor Snape, I... I,” she was reduced to a stammering first year for a moment but never took her eyes off him. Drawing herself up, she took a deep breath. “I was wondering if you were all right.”

Snape sighed, his anger flowing out of him. It took too much effort to be angry. He propped his chin on his arms and looked out to sea.

“You went to considerable effort to find and reach me, Miss Granger, and it was not because you were ‘wondering if I was all right.’” He mimicked her voice on the last words.

She winced at the spite in his tone. “Please don’t be angry, Professor.” Try as she did to prevent it, her voice still quavered. She cleared her throat angrily.

“Miss Granger, all I wish for is to be left alone.” His voice was utterly weary.

“I felt that way for awhile.” She was shredding the tiny plants that grew by her knee.

“Well, I still do.”

They sat in silence for several minutes before Snape spoke again.

“Since you haven’t gone, I assume you want something. If I remember correctly from seven years of torture, if you want something you will not leave until you have gotten it - unless threatened with detention, and as I can no longer make that threat, I can think of no other way of ridding myself of your presence than by asking: what is it you want, Miss Granger?” At the end of that very long sentence he turned and looked at her. She was pulling the leaves from the shrub next to her.

“I _was_ wondering about you; if you were all right and all...” She broke an entire branch off the bush and started stripping the leaves from it.

“I don’t need your pity, Miss Granger.” His voice was nasty.

Hermione flushed angrily. “I save my pity for the dead, Professor Snape!”

“As you should.” He shot the comment back without thinking then turned to study her. Under his scrutiny, her face crumpled and tears filled her eyes.

“What do you want?” His voice was tired but the bite was gone.

Hermione sighed and took a deep breath.

“I need someone to talk to.”

Snape blinked. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t that.

“What about Potter or Weasley?” 

“They don’t want to talk. They did a little, at first, but now they just act as though things are normal and everything.” She sniffed indelicately. 

“You do rather chew things over a bit.” His voice was not as unkind as it had been.

She wiped a tear away with her wrist. “I know I do. I can’t help it.”

“So why on earth did you think I would be willing to talk to you?” The words weren’t kind but the nastiness had left his voice. He was genuinely curious.

“When -- when the battle was ending,” she gulped and the tears trickled down her face. “I fell apart. Completely. I didn’t know who I was or what I was doing.” Snape had a momentary vision of her kicking the lifeless body of Draco Malfoy and winced. “You were there. You dragged me back and held the ragged edges of my soul together until I could function again.”

Snape sighed, pulled a handkerchief from a back pocket and handed it to Hermione. She accepted it gratefully and wiped her tears.

“It was my job, Miss Granger.” His tone was flat.

She looked at him through watery eyes. “No. Not the way you did it. Ron told me about... about you. And him.”

Snape was surprised. “He told you that?”

She nodded and went back to defoliating the bush. “Harry was angry. He thought you were... Well, I don’t know what he thought, but he wanted to interfere. Ron stopped him; told him you were taking care of me. He said you were good to him. And to me. He said you held me for over an hour.”

“That’s how long it took, Miss Granger. Had it taken two hours, I’d have been there. It’s part of my job.”

“Exams were over the day before; I wasn’t your student any longer.”

“You were still at school. You were still my responsibility.”

“You were being kind, Professor Snape.”

“I don’t do ‘kind’.” He reached across her and grabbed her wrist as she was about to pluck more leaves to shred. “That’s poison ivy, Miss Granger. I suggest you stop damaging the local herbage before you, and it, are both the worse for your actions.” He dropped her hand in her lap, suddenly aware of how bony her wrist was. He looked at her closely. She was thin -- too thin. Her eyes were surrounded by dark circles and her skin looked almost transparent. He scowled at her.

“You look as bad as I do.”

Hermione choked on a laugh and looked him over carefully.

“I couldn’t!” She tried a small smile.

He stood in one graceful though slightly stiff movement and held out his left hand. His cuffs were rolled up a couple of turns and the sleeve rode up his arm exposing the pale skin. Hermione gripped his hand and pulled herself up, her eyes on the inside of his forearm. The Dark Mark was no more than a shadow of a smudge. He saw her staring and pulled his sleeve back down.

“Don’t!” She reached out impulsively but stopped short of touching him. “It’s gone!” Her eyes sparkled with new tears. “You’re free.” It came out a whisper.

“Free, Miss Granger?” He snapped at her.

“Yes! He can’t summon you anymore.” She hesitated. “He can’t hurt you and, and no one will think that you... you...”

“No.” Snape looked out to sea again. “But there are those who didn’t take kindly to my defection and some of them are still loose.” Hermione looked confused and he softened a bit, though his voice was still bitter. “I shall always be looking over my shoulder.”

“But Voldemort is gone. It’s got to be better for you.”

He took a deep breath of the clean salty air and looked around as though seeing the beauty for the first time that day. Hermione had a worried look on her face and he relented a bit.

“Yes. It is better.”

She looked ridiculously happy and he scowled at her again. “Have you eaten today, Miss Granger?”

“Uh, I don’t remember. I think I did this morning, before I left England.” 

“How did you get here?” He motioned her ahead of him on the trail.

“Portkey to Dark Harbor then limo to Fort Clyde for the ferry.”

“You don’t Apparate?”

Hermione blushed furiously. “I’m not very good at it. I don’t have my license.”

“Really.” He refrained from teasing her. Not being good at something must be very hard for her.

They walked steadily downhill on the narrow trail, Hermione in the lead, Snape giving direction when the trail split. Finally, the ground levelled and opened out and the lighthouse was ahead of them. A man was sitting sketching by one of the outbuildings and he looked up as they approached. 

“I see you found him.” His blue eyes were friendly.

“I did, thanks.” Hermione smiled at him.

“So you’re to blame!” Snape frowned but Bradley, used to the ways of the dour man, just laughed.

“Do you some good to talk to a pretty young lady, Severus.”

Snape scowled in earnest but the artist waved him off.

The road down the hill was steep and covered with loose gravel. Hermione’s sandals didn’t give her good footing and she slid twice before without a word, Snape took her arm and steadied her. When he released her arm she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow.

He looked up at the sky. It was well past noon.

“Which boat did you come over on?”

“The first one.”

“It took you that long to find me?”

She flushed. “No.” He raised an eyebrow. “I was watching you for awhile.” 

His eyes opened wide in disbelief. “You were _watching_ me? For how long?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “A couple of hours.”

He pulled away from her. “A couple of hours!” He was shouting at her.

“I didn’t want to disturb you.” She still wasn’t looking at him.

“If you didn’t want to disturb me, you should have stayed home.” He was furious. “Why couldn’t you have talked to Molly Weasley, or Professor McGonagall, or _anyone_ rather than trail after _me_ half way round the world?” 

She stared at him in horror. “I... I’m sorry, Professor. I just...” Her voice trailed off. 

“Just what?” He demanded. But she couldn’t answer, just stood staring at him with a wounded expression.

He snorted in disgust and swung open the gate to the guest house. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he snapped, and Hermione scuttled past him inside the gate and up the path. He gestured to the door on the right. “It’s open.”

“Open?” She tried the door and it opened easily.

“It’s a very small island, Miss Granger, and you can only come and go by boat. Not exactly high crime.”

“But.” She stopped and cocked her head as though sensing the air. “No magic?”

Snape moved past her to the tiny kitchen area. “No.”

When he offered no further explanation, she studied him thoughtfully but didn’t ask any questions. ‘Now that’s certainly different,’ he mused to himself as he washed his hands in the sink. He filled the tea kettle and lit the stove then turned to find her still standing in the middle of the room.

“Sit!” She jumped to obey and he shook his head. “Will an omelette be satisfactory?”

“Um, yes, thank you. I’m not really hungry.”

“Neither am I. However, we are both going to eat.” He started pulling things out of the tiny refrigerator. 

She watched him deftly sorting, washing, chopping and slicing and found herself relaxing. She had always loved watching his hands when he prepared potion ingredients. The long fingers were graceful, the movements economical and sure.

When the tea was ready, he wiped his hands on a towel and poured her a cup, setting it on the table and adding a small container of cream from the fridge. She fixed her tea and watched him stir up the mushrooms and chives in the pan.

“May I call you Severus?” Her voice was so quiet he almost didn’t hear her.

“You may not.” He didn’t look at her but his voice was not harsh.

She stared at the table for a moment. He flipped the omelette easily, divided it and slid it onto two plates he’d warmed in the oven. He added a handful of raspberries and set the plate in front of her with a napkin and a fork. The toast popped from the toaster and he buttered it, sliced it and added it to their plates. Refilling the tea mugs, he then settled himself in a chair across from her.

“Are you lacking something?” She hadn’t started eating.

“No, sir.” She picked up her fork.

He sighed. “You may not call me Severus, but you can certainly drop the sir. Professor will do quite well.”

“Yes, Professor.”

He looked at her, his brow lowering in warning.

“Miss Granger, if you are going to sulk, you can leave now. It is highly unbecoming in someone of your intelligence and level of experience.”

She gave him a sharp look but he was spreading marmalade on his toast. She nodded and took a bite of omelette.

“This is excellent!”

“It’s not flattering that you sound so surprised.” He sipped his tea.

She blinked. “I only meant... Well, I’m not sure what I meant. I’m not surprised you can cook, I’d have been surprised if you couldn’t, but these mushrooms, they’re really good.”

He smiled a small but genuine smile. “I gathered them yesterday in the woods. The raspberries too, by the trail.”

She stopped in mid chew and looked at her plate. He set his fork down with a look of irritation. “Miss Granger, do you really think I can not tell one mushroom from another?”

She flushed. “Of course not.” She sighed. “I’m really not myself these days.”

“Nor am I, Miss Granger, nor am I.”

She looked at him in surprise. Then after a moment’s hesitation, “Will you call me Hermione?”

He set his tea down slowly. “No.”

She looked close to tears and her voice was barely a whisper. “Why not?”

He looked at her, his dark eyes not unkind. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, that’s all.”

She didn’t understand, but accepted his word and finished her meal in silence. When they were through, he brewed more tea and washed up the dishes in the tiny sink. She excused herself to the bathroom, used the facilities and washed her face. She used a charm to tidy her hair and remove the spots of dirt from her jeans before going back to the small but cosy sitting area. Snape was standing by the patio door looking out at the water.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day, Miss Granger?”

She looked confused. “I don’t know. I wanted to see you, then I was going to take the last boat back.”

He waved his mug at a white boat steaming away from the island. “Miss Granger, _that_ is the last boat.”

“Oh!” Her face registered shock. “Oh dear.”

“I can Apparate you back to the mainland; can you get back from there?”

“I... I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking that far.”

“How could you not be thinking?” He was angry with her.

“Once I found out where you were, I just got here as fast as I could. I wasn’t thinking about anything else but getting to you.” Even realizing how her words sounded, she couldn’t keep them back. “I needed you... to talk... to you...” Her voice trailed off.

He looked into her eyes and saw the same horrors that had haunted his days and nights for weeks. He poured them fresh tea, gestured her to the wicker loveseat and drew a straight-backed chair from the kitchen. Turning it, he straddled it and folded his arms on the back.

“All right, Miss Granger.” His voice was gentle. “I’m here. Talk.”

And she did. The words spilled out with the tears: every thought, every feeling; every fear. He kept her supplied with handkerchiefs and tea and when the sky darkened, turned a light on low, all without breaking the flow of her narrative. He listened patiently, intently, quietly. It was late when she got to the end, to the worse part. Her tears were flowing freely; her voice was hoarse from hours of talking.

“I killed him!” Her voice was full of agony.

“Mr. Malfoy?” Snape knew who she meant.

“Yes! I hated him, but I didn’t know I could kill him but I did!”

“Did you use an Unforgivable?” Snape was using his schoolroom voice and Hermione started in surprise.

“No! I wouldn’t do that!”

“Then how did you kill him?” Snape’s practical voice helped steady her.

“I hit him with a Stunner. Really hard. I wanted to hurt him. I hated him!” Her voice was starting to climb again.

“A Stunner wouldn’t have killed him, Miss Granger. Now tell me what happened?” He sounded annoyed.

Her eyes were huge, looking inward. “When I hit him with the Stunner he flew back into the rocks. He must have hit his head.”

“So, you didn’t kill him.”

“Yes, I did. He died because of me.”

“Miss Granger, don’t be so ready to take credit. You had a part in his death, to be sure, as did we all. You, me, the Dark Lord, Dumbledore, Potter, Weasley … Malfoy himself. We all share that responsibility.”

“But I,” she choked. “You saw what I did. I _kicked_ him when he was dead!”

“Why did you do that, Miss Granger?” His voice was harsh.

“I hated him!”

“Why?”

Her eyes were open wide but saw only the past. “Because he died.” Her voice was full of wonder. “I hated him because he died, like all the others... he died.” Her voice trailed off in a whisper. She looked at Snape, her eyes focused again. “How could I have done that? How could I have kicked him? It’s so awful!”

“Miss Granger. You can not possibly expect yourself to behave as you normally would when in a battle situation.”

“But it’s under stress that our true nature comes out.”

Snape sighed inwardly. Here was the problem at last.

“Miss Granger, that is simply not true.” She looked at him in shock. “Who a person is is not determined by one or two acts performed under incalculable stress. A person can kill and not be a killer. A person can perform a heroic act but not be a true hero. Who you are is determined by a lifetime of choices. People don’t make thoughtful choices in battle. They do the best they can under grievous circumstances. Cowards can be heroes, heroes can be cowards; trained killers can run in fear and the gentlest soul can kill. You didn’t kill intentionally. If you had, you would not have been angry."

“But how could I have done that?”

“Miss Granger, if it had been Mr. Longbottom instead of you, would you have thought him a monster?” Snape’s voice was quiet.

“No,” Hermione whispered. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Miss Weasley?”

“No.”

“Then, please, give yourself the same consideration.”

Hermione twisted the handkerchief in her hands. Her third and his last.

“I thought I was horrible person.” Her voice was a whisper.

“Miss Granger,” Snape took a deep breath and forced an edge into his voice. “Do not think so much of yourself.” She looked at him with a stunned expression. “You were a child, forced to do an adult’s job. There is nothing extraordinary about your reactions. They do not define who you are.”

She gasped and looked at him, her mouth open. Seconds ticked by and he sat perfectly still watching her. After about 15 seconds, she blinked and her expression changed minutely. He knew her formidable intellect was testing, weighing and evaluating his words. Another 20 seconds and she exhaled a long slow breath, closed her mouth and continued to stare at him. He returned the look, sitting still as a statue. 

“I... I’m not some horrible monster?”

Snape relaxed a little and allowed himself a small sneer. “Miss Granger, in the situation in question, no, you were not some horrible monster. However, based on your seven year performance in my Potions class I cannot acquit you of that title completely.”

Hermione choked. Then a small giggle escaped her. She stared at Snape for a moment, then laughed. His shoulders sagged with relief.

She stood and ran her hands through her hair.

“Professor, how can I ever thank you?”

He rose stiffly. It was late and he was tired.

“By allowing me to be selfish and ungentlemanly in making you sleep on the loveseat tonight. I’m too old and too stiff to sleep on something that short.”

She blushed furiously. “Professor...” Whatever she was going to say she thought better of it and changed tack. “Professor, why won’t you call me Hermione?”

She was standing close to him and he looked down into her wide innocent eyes. The eyes of a child, the eyes of a woman. He decided to chance her understanding.

“Hermione.” He spoke her name slowly with his usual careful enunciation, each syllable caressed with his deep rich voice. He put nothing special into the uttering of her name but saw her reaction clearly when the professorial facade dropped and the reality that was the man took its place.

A frisson of feeling shot through her and settled in the lowest part of her core. She gulped. ‘Dear Merlin, this is my _teacher!_ ’ Her face flushed, then went pale.

“I see.” She took a deep breath. “Uh... maybe next year.”

Snape threw his head back and laughed.

“You have always been a witch with extraordinary good sense.”

Hermione flushed with pleasure and something else as well.

Snape brought her a blanket and pillow. The loveseat was just long enough for her. She rearranged the cushions and looked at Snape nervously. He smiled at her gently.

“Sleep well, Miss Granger. You are safe tonight. From me, and from yourself.”

She blushed furiously. “Good night, Professor.”

~

Snape crawled into bed and thought of the young woman in the next room. She had come to him for comfort when she was most needy. No longer a child, not quite a woman, she had trusted him instinctively. He shook his head in wonder.

He gave a brief thought and short prayer for all the children who would not grow up then put all thoughts firmly out of his mind and slept better than he had since the battle.

~

Hermione lay curled on the loveseat, the blanket tucked under her chin, and thought about the man in the next room. He was turning from a teacher to a man in her mind and she wasn’t sure she liked that idea right now. Then came the memory of her name on his voice and she trembled. She definitely did like _that._ She sighed and settled deeper into the cushions. Either way, she felt utterly safe with him close by.

~~

In the morning, he made them a breakfast of ham and eggs, potato pancakes and raspberries. Hermione protested that she only ever had tea and toast but he insisted.

“You’re as bossy here as you were in the classroom,” she complained as she stuffed a large piece of ham in her mouth.

He thumped a jar of marmalade in front of her and sat down. 

“For half of my life, I have been trying to keep empty-headed imbeciles from blowing up me and the entire school. I have had a House full of children to deal with, a third of whom are homesick, a third who are always trying to hex somebody and the other third so hormonal they’re trying to shag everyone in sight.”

She watched him as they ate. His face was unguarded and relaxed and she questioned how she had ever thought him ugly. He wasn’t _good_ looking in the way Harry was, but his features were strong and regular and not at all displeasing -- when he wasn’t scowling. She wondered what it would have been like to have him as Head of House, to have been around him a lot, to not have been hated by him.

“Including you?” The words were out of her mouth before she knew she had thought them and they shocked her to the core. What on earth was she thinking? He was going to hex her into next week.

“Including me, what?” He looked puzzled, then as his quick mind put the thoughts together, his brow lowered.

“Miss Granger, that is impertinent.”

She watched his long hands as he poured more tea and something stirred inside her.

“I’ll bet some of them tried.” Her voice was soft and she smiled at him innocently.

He levelled his blackest scowl at her.

“You are behaving like Mr. Weasley. If you don’t stop it this minute, I shall throw you off the pier and let you swim to the mainland.”

“You wouldn’t. I can’t swim.” She was grinning at him.

“Miss _Granger!_ ” He slammed his hand on the table and Hermione howled with laughter.

“You don’t scare me anymore!” She was surprised and delighted with her discovery.

~~

He took Hermione off to show her the island. They hiked and talked, picnicked and explored. He showed her where the mushrooms were growing and they picked raspberries and some early blueberries. Her questions about the island -- its geology, history, people, plants, animals, politics -- were all answered patiently and she never once thought to be surprised that he knew all the answers. Their minds were alike, soaking up knowledge like sponges and he had three weeks’ head start on her. While poking around in a tide pool and looking up the creatures they found there in a book Snape had brought, sitting close together, heads bent over the dripping, wiggling crab held gingerly in Hermione’s fingers, Snape realized how much he was enjoying himself. Teaching came naturally to him and having a bright inquiring mind to deal with instead of 20 or so morons who would blow the place up if he took his eyes of them for one second was a real treat. He could challenge her to think, coax her to her own conclusions and never have to worry that some little Death Eater would report him to Daddy for favouring the wrong student.

Scrambling over the steep rocks of the cliff trail, Snape held out his hand to help Hermione up a particularly rough stretch. She took his hand without hesitation and after she was over the bad stretch, she left it in his grasp like a trusting child until the trail forced them into single file again. He marvelled at her total acceptance of him. So different from the classroom where, like all the other students, she had been afraid of him. Perhaps Hagrid had been right. All you had to do to gentle a creature was to be kind to it. The thought brought him up short. Was that what she was doing to him? Unconsciously, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, she was being kind to him. Giving him the trust and acceptance of friendship for their short time together. Healing him as he had helped her heal. The thought numbed him.

Hermione was enjoying herself. She wasn’t light-hearted, she was a long way from that yet, but she was quietly having a wonderful time. Professor Snape was so different here than he was in the classroom! He was patient and gentle with her, encouraging her to work things out for herself, challenging her thought processes and making her arrange her thoughts and arguments in an orderly fashion - not that she needed much encouragement to do that. He was, as always, overwhelmingly knowledgeable and had no problem sharing what he knew. She remembered some of her teachers who had seemed to almost guard their knowledge jealously, as though afraid she might surpass them. Professor Snape was not like that. In the classroom he had been totally dictatorial, not allowing for any experimentation or deviation from his instructions. Ruefully, she admitted that safety wise, it was probably a very good idea, but at the time it had made her feel as though he had not trusted her judgement and intelligence. 

He didn’t even look the same here. Without the voluminous folds of the billowing black cloak he looked smaller. While he was still tall, he wasn’t the towering, glowering menace of the classroom. His long black hair, always so lank and greasy-looking at school, was fine and silky with rainbow highlights in the sun. He was lean and graceful, all muscle and bone. With his shirt sleeves rolled up, the cuffs of his jeans turned up to his knees and wading barefoot in a tide pool he looked less like and apparition from the dungeons and more like... a man.

He had listened to her for hours the previous day, keeping her supplied with handkerchiefs and letting her pour out all the horror and fear of that day on the battlefield. He had given her everything she needed and demanded nothing in return, quietly helping her pick up the threads of her sanity and weave them back together. She remembered the look on his face when he had turned to her on the cliff top before he knew who was beside him. Black fury, certainly, but there was such pain in his eyes that it almost made her forget her own. Yet he had put it aside and taken care of her. As, she realized, he always had. He may have bullied and terrorized his students, but they were his and no one else had better threaten them. When he gave her his hand to help her over the rocks, she had held onto it, trying to let him know, in a small way, that she was his friend. Of more than that, she could not think. The feelings that had stirred in her the night before had surprised and shocked her. Today she realized that at some point she might like to explore those feelings if he had any interest -- which she doubted -- but right now what she needed was a friend. And if she needed one that badly, perhaps he did as well.

They were careful to talk only of the present. The past and the future were tucked away, to be looked at another day. On the way back through the village, after stopping for ice cream, they met a family whose car was in Fort Clyde and who were driving back to Dark Harbor after the last boat. They would be happy to give Hermione a ride to the Portkey point.

Shortly before the boat was due, they were back in Snape’s rooms, drinking lemonade.

“Will you be staying here much longer?” Hermione pulled a twig out of her hair.

He smiled gently and Hermione realized she had seen him smile more that day than she had the entire time she had known him. The smallest smile changed his face completely and she wondered that she had ever been so afraid of him or thought him ugly.

“I don’t think so.” He stretched hugely, like a cat. “It’s about time to leave.”

She nodded. “You look a whole lot better than you did yesterday, Professor.”

“Thanks.” The word was tinged with sarcasm. He pulled a leaf from her sleeve. “So do you.”

“Yes, well, I certainly feel it.” Her eyes lingered on his face. “Professor?”

“Mmmm?” He raised an eyebrow. 

“Can we maybe try that first name thing next year?”

He looked into her eyes for a long moment. “Perhaps.”

She nodded and smiled. 

He looked out the window. “There’s your boat coming in. Let’s go.”

They walked slowly to the pier and watched the passengers unload. The deckhands threw boxes of groceries and supplies up onto the wharf and people packed them in carts and trucks. The passengers for the return trip were getting on board when Hermione turned to Snape and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. He hesitated a moment, then closed his arms about her and cradled her head against his chest. He lowered his head and rested his cheek against her hair and for a moment they were not professor and student, not man and woman, but just two friends.

The boat captain called and they broke apart. Hermione reached up quickly and kissed his cheek.

“If _you_ ever need anyone to talk to, Professor...” She gave him a stern look.

He returned a smile. “You’ll be at the top of my list.” He assured her and was rewarded with a shy smile.

“Thank you, Professor, for everything.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Granger. Take care of yourself.”

She skipped off down the ramp to the boat and Severus went back to the guesthouse. There was a letter from Minerva begging him to reconsider and return to Hogwarts. The school needed him, she needed him, the children needed him. He sighed and went to pack.

~~~ the end ~~~


End file.
